


One Rainy London Night

by knowledgekid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mention of Mycroft - Freeform, PWP, Post-Karachi, the purple shirt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 22:06:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16921281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowledgekid/pseuds/knowledgekid
Summary: Sherlock comes home to find Irene waiting for him ... in nothing but the purple shirt.





	One Rainy London Night

John walks into 221B to find her sitting on the worn armchair, wearing Sherlock’s purple shirt. From the way her thighs are crossed, she doesn’t seem to be wearing anything else. The smoke from her cigarette hazes around her. 

“Get out,” she says. “And don’t tell him I’m here.” 

“Yes ma’am,” he replies, and walks out of his own apartment, back into the London rain. 

***

Sherlock comes home about an hour later. He’s just finished a case, a bloody good one, which is to say it was both complicated _and_ bloody. Lestrade had kept him at the precinct late to go over various boring protocols and procedures, which was _boring_ , and he wants to get home to Mrs. Hudson’s tea and possibly some leftover cakes. 

He’s fairly bouncing to his front door, key in the lock, about to go up the stairs to 221B, when he smells it. Faintly, just a ghost of it, but he’s highly attuned to anything that had to do with her, and he stops. Takes it in. Then carefully shakes the rain off his Belstaff and climbs the stairs. 

Someone has taken the time to light a fire in the fireplace. She’s facing away from him in the old armchair, a cigarette one hand, a novel in the other. “I thought you’d be all night,” she says in greeting. “John was in and out ages ago.” 

“You probably gave him a fright,” Sherlock notes. He refuses to show emotion at finding her, after months of silence, in his apartment at midnight on a misty London night. 

“I shouldn’t hope so.” Irene stands to face him. Sherlock notes that she is wearing his favorite purple shirt, and a string of pearls, that the shirt reaches her mig-thigh, and that there is nothing underneath. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be on the run? Mycroft may have to have you killed, you know, if he finds you here.” 

“I can take care of Mycroft,” she says smoothly. “I’m here for you.” 

“How did you get into Britain?” 

She shrugs. “False visas. You’d be amazed how little they check when you’re wearing an abaya.” 

He snorts at the idea of Irene in an abaya. 

“You’re wearing far too many clothes,” she notes. 

“You’re wearing far too little. Of mine, might I add.” 

She shrugs. “I like your clothes. You have impeccable taste.”

He can smell her honey-colored hair from across the room, the vanilla shampoo she favors. It’s driving him mad. 

“Shall we retire to your bedroom, or would you prefer to stay out here?” Irene asks. “Your adoring public may like a show.” She takes a few steps towards him. “And you always did like putting on a show, Sherlock.” She brushes a curl off his forehead. “We both know you’re a drama queen at heart.” 

Her scent is all around her now. Her breasts are high and full, pressing out the chest of his shirt, gaping the buttons she’s bothered to close. “How long do we have?” he breathes. 

“I fly out in the morning,” she says. “Best not to tempt the fates. Or Mycroft, as it were.” 

She turns, walks back to the bedroom. “Coming?” she asks. “Sooner or later, I assume, but right now?” 

He follows her, already hardening with want. When she’s inside, he turns, shuts the door, and pushes her down on the bed. She falls, a half-smirk on her face, into his silk sheet and mound of pillows. Her legs are parting for him already. His stare pins her to the bed as he carefully unties his tie, unbuttons his shirt and hangs it for John to take the cleaners, removes his Italian loafers and expensive socks, unbuttons his pants and takes them off. He’s left in a pair of very expensive, very ordinary-looking boxer briefs, which are already beginning to tent. 

“Came on so loaded man/ Well hung and snow-white tan,” Irene murmurs. 

“What was that?” Sherlock asks. 

“‘Ziggy Stardust’. David Bowie, the titular song from _Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars_. First released in March 1972 in the UK, Bowie’s fifth album.” 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“I suggest more research.” She parts her legs for him, her blond hair spreading on his pillows. They will smell like her for days, Sherlock knows. “Sherlock.” 

Then he’s on top of her. “What do you want this time, Irene?” he asks. 

“You,” she says.  
His lips find the side of her neck. They are not, by nature, kissers, either of them, but always seem to break the rule with each other. He does it now, moves up to her mouth and nips at her lower lip. Her breath hitches. It’s easy with her, she’s easy for him, and he’s vain about that. He knows that in her line of work, she keeps herself under tight control, and with him, it flies out the window. He grabs her wrists and pins them above her head. Another vanity of his: Irene allows him control, and no one else. 

“Shall I tie you this time?” he asks. 

“No,” she says. “I want to touch you.” Her lips find his ear. “Like in Karachi.” 

His cock hardens some more at the thought. He arranges himself so it’s brushing against her already. With his free hand, he undoes the top button of the purple shirt. Her breasts spill out,and he stokes at them, ignoring her nipples for the time being, no matter how much she squirms. 

“Do you want something?” he asks mildly. His hand cups one breast, then the other. They’re near perfect: _more than a mouthful’s a waste, less than a mouthful’s a shame_ , is what John always says. 

“Touch my nipples,” she says. 

“You’re too used to giving orders,” he tells her. He flicks one of them with his thumb nonetheless. “I want to see them hard.” His mouth dips, kisses and licks around her breast, carefully avoiding anything overly sensitive. She’s moving under him, straining against his hand. He tightens his grip. 

“Ah, that’s better,” he says, gazing down at two puckered, pointed nipples. He dips his head down and sucks. Irene moans for the first time. She wants to tangle her hands in his delicious curls and can’t. He switches to the other breast and uses his free hand to pinch her other nipple slightly, rubbing the wetness back and forth. She’s bucking up at him now. 

“You’re easy tonight,” he taunts. 

“And how easy are you?” she asks. He lets her wrists go and she reaches down to touch him. He’s hard, and getting harder now. She yanks down his boxer briefs and pulls out his cock. His foreskin’s pulled back to expose the sensitive head. “Let me lick it,” she says, jerking him gently. His breath hitches. She knows her way around a cock. 

“No,” he says. “I’m going to open you up with it.” His fingers trail down and find her. He’s not surprised: she’s already wet; it’s spread from her slit to the rest of her. So quickly. For a professional dominatrix, she does love being held down. He reaches back and massages her ass for a moment, and she gasps. 

“I’m going to open you up with my cock and fuck you,” he says. “And you’re going to come on it.” He takes some lube from the bedside table and slicks himself with it. His foreskin slides deliciously over his head and he positions himself at her opening. “Now, be a good girl and take it all in, darling.” 

He thrusts, hard. She moans. She’s tight and hot and wet and everything he was hoping for through all those long nights alone. God, she’s tight, and she’s gripping him hard, tilting her hips up to meet his. He finds a rhythm. She moans every time he strokes against her g-spot, then spreads her legs wider, lifts them up and locks them behind his head. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. It changes the angle and he can thrust deeper now, can rub against that secret spot more easily. “Touch yourself,” he orders. He knows she’s not going to come from penetration alone. 

Her hand snakes between the two of them, and he’s rewarded with an even greater tightness as she reaches her clit and begins rolling it beneath her fingers. “That’s it, darling,” he encourages. He thrusts harder. He’s getting close now, the excitement of the case merging with the excitement of finding her in his shirt, wet and ready for him, and now underneath him mewling like she’s about to come on his cock. 

“Come for me, Sherlock,” Irene says. “I want to feel you come in me.” 

“What do you want to feel, Irene?” 

“I want to feel that hot spill of come in my pussy,” she says. “Do it, Sherlock. Come for me. It feels so good.” 

He thrusts three, four, five times, so hard the headboard hits the wall, and then he’s coming, nearly seeing stars as he pumps himself into her. She’s crying out with her own orgasm, pressing hard on herself, and the flutter of her walls against him only spurs him on, only makes his own orgasm harder. She grips him tightly until he collapses on her. 

“That was fast,” she says lazily, untangling herself to lie beside him. 

“We’ll go slow next time,” he says. “It’s been too long. Sleep for an hour or so. I’ll wake you.” 

“And how will you wake me up, Sherlock?” Irene asks. 

He smiles wickedly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are love! Tell me what you think, especially since I don't have a beta!


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